In Parallel Places
by Anti-canon
Summary: Stiles and Derek always together, no matter the time, no matter the place. This is me tackling the OTP character meme that went around tumblr a little while back, one verse at a time. Because I couldn't stick to just three paragraphs, they're all their own little one-shot. More will come as I get around to them.


**A/N: Eddard Stark: Knights and castles, lords/ladies and bannermen**

**So, instead of three paragraphs I decided to give each prompt three full scenes. If you have any preferences as to which you'd like to see next, lemme know!**

* * *

Most everyone in court avoids the boy like he carries disease. Orphans are damnable creatures—portents of bad luck, of doom—and for one to walk so freely among the Hale's noble men and women is a spectacle that has garnered them great disdain. And the boy is so… different. He takes to his ostracizion with something akin to pride and makes himself to be unique among them all.

His father was the head of the royal guard and when his wife succumbed to illness, they all knew he would not last much longer after her— not even his sense of duty to the crown or his boy enough to rival his love for her. Killed in battle, in defense of the heirs to the throne, they could not just send his wretched child to live with the others of his kind in the city below, and yet no one wanted to care for such a thing. It took much maneuvering and skill for the queen to finally place him in a family of the court, but such was her prowess that she accomplished it within a month of his parents' passing, even if it was in such a pitiable way that it was accomplished.

Unsuited to be trained as a knight, unwelcome as a companion to her own children, she had to find him a menial job in the castle that he could perform as a child and yet still grow into as the years passed. The Martin family, much in her debt, had a daughter of a similar age, who was curious and ambitious and intelligent and out-wore every device that had been procured to entertain her. Seeing a viable opportunity—strange as it was—she noted the boy as alike in temperament and mindset and appointed him as handmaiden to the girl.

As skeptical as everyone was to the use of this placement, they were all quick to admit the sense in it when the boy took to his standing with remarkable vim—something warped as he would have no trouble contorting to fit an unnatural role. Wherever that girl went, so did he, and the two of them got into such misadventures as to keep them off the hands of their caretakers and the royalty. They were wicked both—smart and shrewd and lovely and so aware of all those things. They dressed alike in soft silks and intricate lace and affectionate colors, but belied the splendor with a sharpness that could cut as well as any corporeal blade.

He always hung a step behind her, conferred with her before giving answer or taking action, kept his head lowered in company and his eyes averted, but there was no doubt that he was as fierce as she—in addition to being of a feral nature that made him perhaps more terrible. He knew his place and as such was widely regarded for having a bark that was worse than his bite. He had an affliction of never being able to hold his tongue, but submissively accepted the deserved punishment—missed meals, time in the cells, and the occasional one-sided clouts. Most in court sneered as he walked by and spit at his feet—crudely insinuated at the lack of a manhood or the addition of a woman's folds—cussed at his existence and name, spewing it like a curse. _Przemysl _

Derek saw and noted all those things—staying away from the boy like a prince should—and yet, found himself enraptured. Since he was young he had asked after stories of the boy. When he too was a whelp and unaware of himself and his place, his parents indulged him, thinking it was just the endless curiosity of a child's mind—unable to leave alone the one thing that was hushed about in quiet corners, but ignored in public. As he grew, he was expected to leave that fascination behind and was frequently punished when he did not. It took only a few nights of being sent away with no supper, after having pressed on after being expressly told to drop the subject, for him to figure out he'd have to find another source for the information.

Whenever Derek found himself with nothing to do and free reign of the castle and its grounds, he would implore anyone that would speak with a crowned prince about such distasteful things to tell him news of the boy—stories that they heard, experiences that they had had. No matter how often he was told the boy was a creature, was lecherous with corruption, he couldn't find it in himself to be affronted. As often as the boy was described as such, it always came with the subscription that he was duplicitly so. With pale skin and amber eyes, a delicate nose and full lips, he lived in this contrary state of beauteous womanhood and lithe, corded masculinity.

Such a thing—such a glorious dichotomy—Derek felt a compulsion to see and feel and _know _it. They did not meet until the boy made it into adolescence and was trained enough to be among the court. Derek saw him first across a square, folded out across the feet of the Lady Martin who perched primly above him on the lip of a fountain. Idly she played with the waters, hair glowing in the sunlight, shape sumptuous in her gown, and yet he could not be bothered to do more than glance at her. Because there was Przemysl and he was dressed nearly as richly and distracted as indolently and was infinitely more striking.

Derek's ears burned and his breath caught in his throat as he wondered if all those other things he'd heard were true because this devilish beauty was everything he'd imagined. Even as he chastised himself for such things, he wondered if the boy trailed death, if he had murder in his heart and blood on his fingers. He wondered if the boy could see into his soul and hear his thoughts and sniff out his emotion. But most of all he wondered after those unseemly things, all those bedchamber rumors that a child of his stature ought not to have ever heard, but which he sought out greedily and sinfully.

He was old enough to have been clinically lectured and artistically tutored and morally reamed about the topic and so he tried to convince himself not to feel guilt about lustfully daydreaming after it. Did such a boy as he really offer up his body to anyone that wanted? Did he do unspeakable things—things that were beyond natural love-making? Was he of both sexes—was he even a he?

Seemingly in confirmation of all those things, the boy cocked his head in Derek's direction and then slowly turned it to capture the prince in his gaze— that infamous gaze that could doom a man to hell. Derek nearly fell to his knees with the weight of it—felt his mouth go dry and his heart hammer and his stomach clench in its wake. The boy regarded him with a detached sort of concern and looked as though he were making to rise and approach when his Lady beat him to a captured interest and ushered him away to follow the knights to their daily practice.

If Derek were obsessed before, this only served to stoke the flames. Thoughts of that imp plagued him everywhere—through lessons and meals and even at night, into his bed, where Derek found himself dreaming equally of his death beneath those penetrating eyes… and of his broken, blissful release.

* * *

As they grew from childhood into adolescence, Przemysl found himself a place among the court, becoming a regular installment around all its daily workings. It was more than anyone had thought he would accomplish, and a great deal more than most had feared. Though he could only make himself known through his Lady, using her as a mouthpiece, his ideas and arguments became infamous.

For though they were clever both, ruthless both, it was simple to tell their proposals apart—so different, opposite even, in approach. They were like two sides to the same coin, and having both ends covered, buried anyone who dared to oppose. Moving together, speaking together, but thinking in drastically different patterns, they covered ground remarkably quickly and were known to be an unstoppable force when it came society and law.

Derek only regularly saw him from across crowded rooms and at the end of busied tables, never getting the chance to speak or even acknowledge his ever-distracting presence. As prince he had each and every day planned out for him from sunrise to set and it never did include the opportunity to set aside the vexing boy and try and make some sense of him. Derek still dreamed of him weekly, and often took to pleasuring himself to haunting images and appalling fantasies. He found no shame of it in private, but afterwards would find himself sick with worry that someone would see, that they would find out and hate him for it as they hated the very object of those desires.

Przemysl never did grow to be loved by much anyone, even as the years went on and he proved himself to be capable and steadfast. Everyone still believed of an evil in him, no matter his actions, and so he was never allowed into special affairs or celebratory gatherings. Much as he had forced himself into their day-to-day life, he could never force an invitation to balls or weddings or holidays.

Though it clearly bothered the boy, Derek envied him for it all the same, having just the opposite dilemma. As prince, he was meant to make an appearance at every gathering, hosted by every family, and was made to parade around the room as some great placating prize. His presence there was not asked because anyone found interest in his company, but instead because it meant standing for his mother to send him along.

It was on the night of just one such event that he first spoke to Przemysl and that his life changed forever. He doesn't remember much of the specifics save for that the gathering was held in the dead of winter and at the Martin's own estate. Derek could not fake illness well enough to fool his mother and get out of going, but he feigned a headache well enough to excuse himself from the party's company to head outside for fresh air.

It was freezing out and he hadn't brought a proper coat, but it was worth the chill to get away from the false smiles and empty eyes and assuming, inappropriate touches that he did not welcome. He was coming of that age and a prince was a rare prize to catch, even if he wasn't in the direct line of succession. Derek had no patience for such administrations though and rebuffed any and all of them that came. His father joked that he was just late in his blooming, but his mother's critical eye seemed to him to think otherwise. He feared it constantly.

She was an astute woman and a merciless one, for all the empathy in her heart. She had ideals and anything that threatened them was battered down without exception and without remorse. It was what made her such a great ruler, but not always a great mother. Derek never held any ill-will towards her for it, respected her even, but often found his idle wants and needs on the opposite end of her own, and so often fell victim to having them lightly and perfunctorily dashed across the rocks.

Somehow, he thought she knew about his fascination with the young devil child in her courts. Unlike his father, she didn't seem to find his disinterest in love amusing, never even commented on it—instead looking coolly down her nose at him with a raised eyebrow and thin lips. It was like, with that one look, she was reminding him what she expected of him, and that she would tolerate no less. Przemysl, of course, did not fit into that picture.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest and huffing out a frustrated breath, he kicked at some loose rubble on the wide landing of this house, sending it sailing into the bushes below the railing. A sickening _thunk _accompanied the rustling of the leaves and Derek's stomach turned as he heard harsh curses being hissed. With wide eyes and a thundering heartbeat, he rushed down the stone stairs—already forming an apology on the fly and wringing his hands.

When he turned the corner—when he launched off that last step, already spouting a well-rehearsed, but overly verbose expression of contrition—there he was. His skin was an ethereal, milky white in the cold, making the smatterings of beauty marks and plush pink of his lips and nose stand out even more gorgeously than usual. His eyes seemed over-dark without the light and Derek felt his breath catch high and painful in his chest when they turned on him. The words died on his lips and his body came to an utter and complete stop, much as it did during their first meeting.

He didn't feel the cold—his whole body flushing with a sordid heat at the muscle memory of what he usually did when confronted with this image. Derek could feel his cheeks and ears turn red and his breath was wet as he couldn't close his mouth. Effortlessly, foolishly, a scenario played through his mind in which the object of his obsessions laid him down inside those self-same bushes he just erupted from, and they spent the night hiding together, close and intimate—Przemysl touching him, holding him like Derek had always wanted.

He thinks he would have stayed there, both of them would have stayed there, staring at each other until the frost took them, but Przemysl's eyes suddenly fluttered and winced closed as a dark, oozing trickle of blood slid into the corner of one. It was enough to shock Derek back into his senses and he rushed forward, panic in his throat, even as he knew it couldn't be anything serious. He whipped his monogrammed kerchief out of his breast pocket and immediately started dabbing at the wet, throbbing patch of skin behind Przemysl's hair, just above his temple.

He didn't even think as he used one hand to grip at the other boy's slender wrists to keep him from fidgeting, and doted on him with the other, lips parted in a concerned moue as he made a short, honest apology this time. "I did not know you were there, otherwise I would never—I try my best to be good to everyone, like my mother, but especially to you, and—"

Przemysl ducks his head away from the ministrations and wrestles his wrists back, rubbing at them as though Derek had tied them with rope, a wary expression punching his face. "Especially me? What does that mean? Why _especially _me?"

Derek's heart skips a beat and he can feel his mouth opening and closing dumbly even as no sound comes out. Even out in this winter air, he begins to sweat, and he turns his eye back to the household, wishing someone would burst out now, looking for him—saving him from this. He's never been good at the social aspects of being a prince, never been able to charm and amuse and garner respect like Laura or Cora, but in this case he can't even find it in himself to spout the usual polite niceties. "You—I—Przemysl, there's…" Derek swallows heavily and shuts his eyes tight in embarrassment.

He gets his chance, he finally gets his chance to talk to this bewitching creature, and this is all he can manage. He bows his head in shame and thinks that he should just walk away, that this is proof his mother has always been quite right about him and he should just go about doing exactly as she says from now on. Clearly she's known this whole time that when confronted with his wants, Derek wouldn't be able to grasp at them. Clearly she's just been protecting him from failure and humiliation with her restrictions. For him, this is the most logical and easy leap to make, and he's just about to beg his dismissal, when he feels a feathering touch along his cheek. "You know my name?"

His head snaps up and his eyes fly open and Derek's brows furrow even as an astonished smile breaks across his lips. Przemysl is right in front of him, close enough to kiss, and has a hand hovering over the prince's cheek. Their skin hasn't touched, but that tickling at his flesh was the other boy's lacy sleeves, brushing where his hand doesn't dare. Derek wishes he would, wishes he would be as bold and brazen as the people inside and just take him. "Of course I do." He says it like Przemysl would be blind not to know of his affections, as Derek thinks he would have to be. "I try to know everything… about you."

It almost makes him sick to admit it, but he just couldn't stop the words from spilling from his mouth, and honestly, he's glad they did. He doesn't want to hide this, not from the boy it's all about. Without breaking eye contact, Derek lets his head drift so Przemysl is cupping his face, and he nuzzles into the touch with an audible, rasping gasp. The hand shakes beneath him, but Derek just smiles softly, steadying it with his own.

The other boy's eyes have blown wide and he looks as though he can't decide whether to take another step forward or to run until the castle is no longer in sight. "Would you let me?" Derek prompts, making that decision for him, brushing the toes of their boots together. "I want… to know you."

* * *

Ever since that night, Derek has made sure Przemysl never again had to hide in the bushes just to be near a party. He hand delivers every invitation to the little hut the boy sleeps in—to the side of the sprawling Martin estate. No matter how it makes people talk, how it makes his mother furious, he always rises to meet the boy when he is announced, eyes glittering as he takes in the fine, pastel silks that he favors, and smiling wide enough to show his teeth. It only takes a year before Derek finds the courage to ask him to dance and now, whenever they do, it always feels like it's only the two of them in the room.

As they grow into adulthood, they grow into their respective places, and Derek fights to take control of himself and his life. He stops hiding behind the weight of his mother and using her as an excuse when he isn't bold enough to go after something he wants. They butt heads constantly, but she's always amiable afterwards, and even maybe a little proud. Derek wonders if this is what she had been wanting all along, and would not be surprised at all if she only pushed him so hard because she was waiting for him to push back.

Dictating how he spends his own time, and what he deems to be worth it, Derek finds the time to get to know the devil boy in his court, and finds him to be not so devilish… at least not in the way his subjects try to portray him. Przemysl is most definitely wicked and clever and devious— with little reservations about anything, but he is also shy and kind and strangely self-conscious and Derek finds an otherworldly beauty in the way he alternates between so aggressively staggering forward and then feinting and wilting back at a word or a look.

They don't really get private moments alone, not since that first night, and so do nothing beside tease and bicker and stare, but Derek's sisters always try and rile him about being an insufferable flirt and he can never say anything in his defense. He's been properly and openly courted by a half dozen sons and daughters belonging to every noble family in the kingdom, but he's never paid any one of them half as much attention as he pays Przemysl. It's one thing his mother has always been frankly disapproving of, but by now, knows she's not going to win any fights about, because it's something Derek as absolutely no qualms about being utterly illogical about.

He mostly only wears colors that Przemysl has commented on loving. He keeps his beard grown out—even though it itches—because Przemysl finds it endearing and handsome. He took up jousting because Przemysl loved to frequent the matches and he special orders bundles upon bundles of forget-me-nots into the castle because they remind Przemysl of his mother. The entire kingdom knows of how thoroughly the young prince dotes on the handmaiden, and though it sometimes causes an uproar during dinners, most don't know what to think or even say on the subject.

It looks as though it's bound to stay that way for a good long while—the both of them flitting around each other and only ever making eyes—until Derek catches wind that Przemysl has fallen ill, ill enough not to attend the festivities thrown tonight for his twenty-fifth birthday. He frets over it all day, asking after the boy again and again, ignoring the well-wishes from his family and court members, ignoring what's left of the preparation. He knows it's rude and awful of him, but he's sick with worry—mind going to the worst place and wondering if the disease that killed his mother might have carried onto the boy he had so vehemently refused to be cursed.

What if he had been wrong? What if this vile thing had been coursing through Przemyl's blood his whole life, just waiting to take it? What if the poor boy really had been doomed from the second he was born?

It consumes him, and by the time the castle doors open to welcome guests, he is sick with it. Not caring for the furious criticism it garners him—his family fuming behind him—Derek dashes out into the evening, eyes and heart set on the Martin estate. The sun is setting by the time he gets there on foot, and he's breathing heavily, sweating profusely, feeling like he's been slipped a poison.

He stumbles and his body shakes as he makes his way around the back of the main house to Przemysl's hut. He stops at the door, swallowing thickly and breathing through his nose in an effort not to vomit. He doesn't bother knocking once he has the courage, just throws the door open and bursts inside. He's only been here once or twice, and never for long, but it's only really one room, sanctioned into areas by semi-sheer curtains Przemysl hung himself. In the back, behind the soft, periwinkle blue fabrics, is the bed and Derek covers his mouth, wiping at his eyes, before moving towards it.

He pushes the curtains aside with a light touch, and feels tears pricking at his eyes when he catches sight of the boy he so loves with his back turned to the entrance. He's sitting a worn vanity, mirror littered with water stains, in a white night shirt that's falling off his freckled shoulders and that stops at a rather risqué length around his mid-thigh. There's a basin of water in front of him and he's wiping at the skin beneath his open collar with a wet cloth—fever having turned it a splotchy red.

Derek's never seen him like this—with his hair matted and his skin tacky and his eyes dull—and it sets an ache in his heart the likes of which he's never felt. He imagines this is what the boy looks like when he's just awoken, when he's not yet coherent and his mouth still feels filled with cotton. Derek imagines he could be the one to sit with him and clean him so gently—to wipe away the dirt and sweat accumulated the day before and to follow the rag with his lips. He imagines he would forego breakfast to slip off that night shirt and let his hands and his tongue follow all that pale skin and that dark hair until Przemysl was once again fiery and bright and alive beneath him.

He walks on the balls of his feet as he enters and makes sure to stay out of sight of the mirror. He doesn't hesitate, not for a second, when he finally steps up behind Przemysl— smiling gently as the boy's eyes widen in the reflection—and places a warm hand on his bare shoulder. It's the first time they've touched skin-to-skin since they met. "Przemysl, dear." Derek crouches and puts his forehead to the back of the boy's neck, sniffling when he notices how hot it burns.

"What are you doing here?" Przemysl grasps at the ties of his shirt with quaking hands and moves to stand, to cover himself, but Derek grounds him with that hand, lifts his head to make eye contact in the mirror, and brings the other up and over to push the night shirt back open, letting his fingers drift down to tangle in the patch of chest hair visible. Beneath his touch, the body quakes and Derek tries to blink away tears.

"Do they know?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper as he practically wraps himself around the smaller boy. "What is it? I—I swear I will ride out myself to find a physician with a cure, no matter what or where it takes me. I swear." Though he doesn't know for sure if it's reciprocated, Derek lets himself press a kiss to the knot at the top of Przemysl's spine and rubs that beard he's so fond of against the skin there.

The boy's breath hitches in response and Derek furrows his brows, wonders what that means. There's a great, pregnant pause before long, clever fingers find their way to cover Derek's and Przemysl turns to nose at the prince's temple. "Derek—Derek, look at me." Derek shakes his head even as he complies, sniffling and holding the other boy infinitesimally closer to him. When he can finally manage to meet their eyes, even as his chest feels like it's being crushed by a horse, there's light again in those eyes—teasing, but tender. Przemysl is smiling, lips almost shaking with a laugh, and Derek feels so incredibly lost. "Miss Martin had the physician over just this morning and it seems I've eaten something that doesn't agree with me."

Derek feels like the whole world has just been pulled out from under him and he freezes with shock—ears and cheeks flushing hotly. "W-what?" His mouth is dry, but his eyes are still wet and now he feels an entirely different kind of sick.

Przemysl's shoulders shake lightly as he runs his hands along Derek's and turns fully around to face him, letting him back away onto his haunches. "I ate some cheese that had gone bad and spent my morning tied to the chamber pot," he admitted, looking away for just a moment, before shrugging even as he seemed utterly embarrassed. "I didn't want to come to your party because I wasn't sure that was the last of it and the last thing I wanted to do on the dance floor was soil myself in front of you." Przemysl looks nervous now as he rings his hands together and stares at them in their place on his lap. "I—I find myself quite vain in your presence."

Derek's stomach does a couple dozen things as his expression does a couple hundred, and not even sure what to feel or how to react, he lets out a small, barking laugh before surging forward and finally, finally pressing his lips against those lush, plump pink ones that have haunted him since childhood. Przemysl lets him, kisses him back even as he cups Derek's face with his hands and whimpers into it, but when they break for air, he pulls away and stares Derek down. "What?" Derek feels breathless and giddy and terrified all at once and all he wants to do is push Przemysl down into the sheets of his bed and see if he can't make him feel better, some way or another.

"Maybe you shouldn't be doing this…" The words look like they're killing him to say, but Przemysl is determined to get them out, mouth pressed in a firm line. "Your mother, the court—You are a prince and I am a curse." Derek swallows heavily, but shakes his head again, picking Przemysl up easily and transferring him to his bed. He walks away to bring the water basin back over and pushes his shirt open, cleaning at the same spot the other boy was before.

"You are a gift, Przemysl." He slips the fabric from those pale, broad shoulders, and follows it with his lips, bites at his collarbone, licks at the hollow of his throat, sucks underneath the hinge of his jaw. "Every day I am thankful for you." Derek means it, with every ounce of his heart, and he's going to make sure that Przemysl knows it every day for the rest of their lives.


End file.
